I wiggled Lars’s car back and forth so it wasn’t blocking the way and then, dinking it locked, I set off on foot. I’d rather have the walk down the tree-lined drive to plan what I was going to say and not bring her out, at the sound of a car, before I was ready.
But what was I going to say? I could always just throw Julia under the bus, tell Mrs Boswell that I thought Sylvie was in danger from another patient at the hospital. If I accused Dr Ferris without solid evidence I could end up in court for slander. But what if I told the woman that her daughter had been talking and laughing, had been drawing, revisiting the start of her long illness? What mother wouldn’t want to hear that?
I could see something glinting through the tree trunks now. I couldn’t work out if it was glass or water. There was a lot of it, if it was glass. I slowed down a little and made sure I was in shadow as I rounded the last corner and looked at the place Sylvie had called home.
My breath stilled in my throat. It was a cube of windows, flat-roofed and featureless, standing on stilts with a spiral staircase leading down to a garage tucked in below. I couldn’t even see the door from here. What I could see, though, was a pine tree – or a fir maybe, a Douglas fir? I didn’t know many plant names – growing up through the middle of it as if the house had been thrown round the trunk, like a fairground ring.
She had drawn it. A square for the house and a line for the tree it was built round. That sketch was nothing to do with the Mercat Cross. I leaned against the nearest trunk, trying to make sense of it all. I had accused Angelo of lying to me, rehashing a story he had heard in his doctor’s consulting room instead of telling me what had really happened. But maybe the truth was he had told Dr Ferris and she had rehashed the story to me, telling me it was Sylvie’s tale, using it to explain the sketch, so I wouldn’t know the truth of what she was trying to draw.
The cube of a house and the line of a tree growing through it.
And, of course, the person. I traced it on the shiny banded bark beside my head. A square and a line up and down and a line straight across. There was only one way I could think of a person being a horizontal line in the middle of a house. Finally, I thought I knew what Sylvie was trying to tell me.
The sound of a slamming door sent me darting behind the birch tree to hide in its shade and peer round it. Someone had come out of the house and was walking across the deck towards the spiral staircase. The woman, lumbering down the stairs, leaned over the banister and clicked a key fob to start one of the garage doors opening. I pulled further back into the shadows.
I would know her anywhere, from her walk, her bulk, her haughty profile and her frizz of hair. It was Mona Swain. It was Julia’s mother. She squeezed up the space at the side of the garage and wriggled herself into the driving seat of a scuffed BMW. Once she was out on the drive she hit her buttons again to close the garage door and put the outside lights on, for later, then she drove away.
Chapter 22
Memories burst like flour bombs in my head as I stood there: Dr Ferris saying, ‘Now, Sylvie really has been here for ten years. Well, goodness me, almost fifteen now.’ Julia screeching, ‘I killed my father,’ then mumbling, ‘I didn’t say it. I heard it.’ And Angelo’s voice was in there too: ‘No one told me, Mum. I was there.’ And Sylvie’s face breaking into such a wide grin as she bumped across the rough grass, then whispering ‘Ju,’ and, again, ‘Ju.’
But remembering is something you can do anywhere. You can only look for a body in its grave.
I was certain the house was empty, but I rang the number again to make doubly sure, and heard it in both ears, from my phone and through the glass walls of the cube. It would be a cheerless place to live in a typical winter if the windows were flimsy enough to let the sound of a ringing phone through. Stupid sort of house to build in a Scottish forest, whichever way you looked at it. Winters here, you wanted to batten down and sit round a fire, not rattle about in a see-through biscuit tin with the rain hitting it on all four sides and the leaves dropping on the flat roof.
I clicked off and waited a moment. Then, bent at the waist, I scurried over the bit of clear space between the trees and the house and ducked in among the stilts, past the garage, to get to the middle where the pine stood tall and, if I was right, the corpse of . . . someone lay buried at its roots.
It could have been striking if it was in Japan or if Mona Swain was the type who cared what people thought. But the gravel had sunk as the years went by and the tree roots had pulled up into claws, not to mention the mats of soaked leaves blown against the house supports and left to rot there.
God knows what I thought I would see. But if one corpse could rise and reach up out of the ground, why not two? I walked around the tree. Definitely some kind of conifer, I thought, once I was close enough to smell the sharp gin-stink of its fallen greenery under my feet. The litter of leaves was deep and rotten and hadn’t been disturbed for years. I looked up into the canopy of the tree, a dizzying cross-hatch of bare branches. Were both lines the tree? Was I making too much of everything?
I stopped and leaned back against the rough bark. Because Lars was right: it did sound insane. It was crazy to think Dr Ferris was mixed up with the corpse at the abbey. Was it possible, I asked myself, that the watch wasn’t in the drawer at all? I’d been hearing things that weren’t there for years. Maybe I had started seeing them too. So scared for Angel, desperate to get all the trouble away from him and onto someone else. Anyone.
I started, stumbled and went over on my ankle hard. My phone was ringing and this stupid ugly house acted like a trumpet so the sound boomed up into the empty air.
‘What?’ I hissed, jabbing at it. ‘Jesus!’
‘Als?’ said Marco’s voice. ‘What’s up?’ I took a few breaths to calm myself down. ‘Ali, what is it?’
‘What the hell?’ I said. ‘Oh, shit, my foot! What do you mean “what is it”? You phoned me, Marco. What do you want?’
‘What’s wrong with your foot? And where are you? You sound like you’re in a cave. I phoned you back, Ali. I missed a call and Mel said you were trying to get me.’
‘Where are you?’ I said. When he didn’t answer, I swept on. ‘Listen, go home. I don’t want Angel to be on his own.’
‘Aw, come on,’ Marco said. ‘Not this agai—’
‘I’m not asking,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘I’m telling you that our son can’t be on his own. If you won’t go home I’ll get someone else.’
‘Ali, seriously. What is going on?’
‘Well, I’m not going to be home tonight,’ I said. ‘So there’s that.’
‘Oho! Open marriage time, is it?’ Marco said. I didn’t answer. I took the chance to hold out my phone and get a picture of the cube.
‘I’m doing a night shift,’ I said, with the phone back at my ear. ‘You need to take care of Angel while I take care of someone else. And another thing. I need get to the bottom of it all.’ I was out from under the house again by the time I got through this little speech, striding up the drive towards Lars’s car. I had never felt stronger or surer in my life.
‘The bottom of what? Ali, you need to get a gri—’
I hung up. More than half of me thought he was right. I was imagining things and seeing things and there was no way that any of this could really be happening. Surely. I couldn’t trust myself, I had learned that years ago.
I slowed and stopped and stood there. I’d been taught that years ago. Had I learned my lesson? I put my hands over my face to shut out even the dim light under those glowering trees. I tried to stop the sound of the wind and its cold breath on the backs of my hands, and get myself down to the plain truth inside all the madness. The hard ground under my feet.
I punched Marco’s number and he answered after half a ring.
‘And I want to name our daughter and have a memorial to her,’ I said. ‘Just so you know.’
Dr Ferris’s car still wasn’t back when I arrived at the hall, neither in its usual space nor at the far
end chosen for her quiet getaway. I parked and went in, still striding, still sure. Dr F, crossing the main hall with a stack of folders in his arms, stopped and quirked his head at me. ‘You seem filled with purpose, Ali,’ he said. ‘Having a good day?’
‘Very,’ I said. I walked past him so he had to turn and face the light from the landing window. I needed to watch his face while I said the next bit. I was pretty sure he wasn’t a part of whatever his wife was up to but I’d be able to tell from his eyes when I told him what I had to say.
‘Sylvie,’ I said, ‘has been talking.’
He went through a frown, a big blink and a hoick of his eyebrows up into his hair. Then a beaming smile spread over his face. ‘Sylvie?’ he said. ‘What did she say?’
I gave the grin back to him. ‘La-la, Ju-ju, La-li, and ssh,’ I said.
‘Oh!’ He covered his mouth with his hand and I could see his eyes shining. ‘Am I the first one you’ve told?’
‘Lars heard some of it.’
‘And this was today,’ he said, not quite a question. ‘Or we’d have heard at the shift change.’
‘Right,’ I agreed.
‘Amazing,’ he said. Then he blinked hard again a couple of times. ‘I need to get a hold of myself or I’ll lose a lens. Such vanity. I should wear my specs and be done with it. Congratulations, Ali. Whatever you did, I applaud you.’
I gave him a tight smile, but I couldn’t speak. Flour bombs going off again. Only this time they were more like fireworks, setting light to little dry scraps of memory.
‘It was Julia,’ I said to Dr F, as I turned to go. ‘Not me.’
I bounded up the stairs to her room and walked in, with a cursory couple of raps on the door.
‘Ju?’ I called.
‘I’m having a shit!’ she shouted, from behind the half-open bathroom door.
‘You sound like you’re feeling better again,’ I said. ‘I know what it is you’re here to try and find out. I’m going to help you. But you need to come back to Sylvie’s room.’
She blatted the door open and strode out. ‘What?’ she said. ‘How?’
‘Aren’t you going to wash your hands?’ I said. ‘Or flush the bog?’
‘Oh, FFS! I wasn’t shitting. I said that because it’s inappropriate and inappropriate is textbook histrionic.’ I gave her a look. ‘Yeah, I know you’ve busted me but I’ve got in the habit. And it’s a good laugh too.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to can it,’ I told her. ‘You’re going to have to sit quietly and let your elders and betters talk about important stuff, okay?’
I watched a few candidate comebacks cross her mind and her face but in the end she nodded. I took her arm and pulled her out of her room and down the stairs.
‘Your dad,’ I said, once we were in the side-corridor that led to Sylvie. ‘Ralph, I mean. Ralph Boswell? You said he tarted himself up for a fancy woman. I’m guessing he got his teeth fixed as well as buying contact lenses. Am I right?’
‘He looked like a gameshow host,’ Julia said. ‘From photos, I mean. I was too young to remember him for real.’
‘Yeah, you said,’ I told her, squeezing her tight just for a second as I opened the door and ushered her in. ‘Stay here until I get back, okay? Give me your phone till I put my number in. If anyone comes, call me. Anyone. Okay?’
I made my way to the staff kitchen, sure I would find someone there who could beep Lars. As luck would have it, I found Lars himself. Him, Belle, Hinny, Surraya and Yvonne all turned solemn eyes on me as I came in.
‘How much did you tell them?’ I said.
‘Well, you know, the watch,’ Lars said. ‘Shoot me.’
‘Did anyone else go to look at it?’ I said. There were frowns all round. ‘Because this is so insane I’m having a hard time believing it’s happening.’
‘He’s your boy and you love him,’ Belle said. ‘At least Dr Ferris didn’t turn him in. He’ll get off with a warning.’
I blinked. ‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘That would be bad enough, Belle. I think whatever’s really going on is worse by a mile. Lars, can you come with me back to Sylvie’s room?’
‘I was going to insist,’ Lars said.
It wasn’t until we were halfway there that I realized he was coming to guard them from me, not help me guard them.
Julia was already sitting hitched onto Sylvie’s bed with her arm around Sylvie’s head like a . . . what I thought was a roll-bar. For protection against whatever incoming blows I had brought with me.
‘I don’t really know where to start,’ I said. ‘So just promise me you’ll keep quiet and let me get through it all? That means you, Julia.’
She nodded but she was looking at Sylvie, and Sylvie was looking back at her, sliding out of focus but then returning.
‘There’s good news and there’s bad news. But most of all, there’s answers. Okay?’ She nodded. ‘Good news first. That’s your sister.’
I don’t know what I expected, but what I got – as well as ‘Jesus! Seriously?’ from Lars – was just Julia nodding slowly as she dotted little looks at Sylvie’s hair and eyes and lips and hands, like the way a little animal touches down its nose when it’s picking up scents from the ground.
‘Sissy,’ she said. ‘Yes, I remember. I really do.’
‘You remember her?’ said Lars.
But it didn’t seem strange to me. Angel remembered what happened when he was three. He knew there was someone missing from our family. That trip of a lifetime? Six months in Australia, just the three of us and the dolly he wouldn’t let go of? I had lost count of the number of nights he woke up clawing his way out of his little bed, rushing about the strange hotel rooms, opening cupboards and bathroom doors, searching. I had lost count, and then I had taken the memory and buried it down, down deep, like you would bury a battered corpse and build a house on top and plant a tree and let the leaves fall and rot until . . .
‘But there’s bad news too.’
‘She killed him,’ said Julia. ‘Sylvie killed him.’
‘She did,’ I agreed.
‘Your dad?’ said Lars. ‘Dr F reckons he’s golfing, you know.’
‘Garran Swain is golfing,’ I said. ‘Ralph Boswell is dead.’
‘She hurt his middle,’ said Julia.
‘I think it was his head,’ Lars said softly. ‘The post-mortem report.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Julia said. ‘His head bashed in so bad a bit of his glasses was embedded in his skull. I know. But she “hurt his middle”. So, you know, I’d say he had it coming. She should have bitten “his middle” off.’
‘Jesus,’ said Lars again, and his voice was as thick as a burp, his throat open as bile rose, father of those three beautiful girls.
‘So . . .’ Julia said. ‘Just to make sure I’ve got this straight. My mother made out he’d left and hid his body. And she sold the Ferrises this place at a knock-down price and in return they kept Sylvie here instead of her going to trial and then to jail? Is that how it goes?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ I said.
‘And she buried him at Dundrennan Abbey,’ Julia said. ‘Where he rested in peace until the floods came.’
‘She tried to disguise him,’ I said. ‘Cheap watch, cheap belt. No one would think that guy in the Asda jeans was Ralph Boswell, would they?’
‘It was definitely Mum who did that bit?’ said Julia.
‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘Sylvie couldn’t have managed it when she was fifteen. She was too young to drive and far too small to manhandle a man’s body. Dig a grave. Your mum did it. To protect her.’
Julia looked down at Sylvie’s blank face. ‘How did you get that?’ she asked. ‘The bitch wouldn’t spit on me if I was burning.’ There were tears in her eyes as she looked up again. ‘Are you definitely sure Sylvie didn’t do it all? They say you get strong when you’re scared. Adrenalin and all that. And I was nicking Mum’s car when I was fifteen.’
‘Yes, but Sylvie doesn’t actually know where
he was buried. She thought she did but she guessed wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’ Julia said. ‘How the hell do you know what Sylvie thinks?’
‘She’s been drawing it,’ I said. ‘If you ask her to draw a house and a tree and a person she draws . . .’ I rummaged a pen out of my bag and dashed off the few lines, then showed it to Julia.
Lars cleared his throat. ‘It’s even more certain than that, actually. He wasn’t buried at the abbey the whole time. He was actually somewhere else first. He’s been moved. A few years ago, while Sylvie was in here.’
‘How do they know?’ I said.
‘The soil,’ said Lars. ‘Well, not soil . . . what do they call it? Humus. Plant matter. Clinging around him.’
‘Was it like a pine tree or a fir tree or something?’ I said.
‘Aw, man, what did Boney say?’ said Lars. ‘Cupressus something. Cupressus semper . . . Sounded more like a school motto than a tree to me.’ Julia pulled her arm free and squirmed her way up the bed to lean against the bed head. She gathered Sylvie to her and held her tight with both arms. ‘Cupressus sempervirens,’ she said. ‘It’s a kind of juniper. Stinks like a skunk.’
‘She buried him there until he was unrecognizable,’ I said, speaking more to myself than anything.
‘Then she dug him up,’ said Julia, taking over, ‘gave him some trinkets he wouldn’t have touched with a barge pole and shifted him to a public place.’ Her words were harsh but the tears were falling. ‘My dad’s dead. And my mum’s going to prison for whatever the hell you call what she did. And my poor sister’s obviously never getting out of the loony bin, is she?’ She gave a helpless sob. ‘I had to meddle, didn’t I? I had to kick it all up and now I’ve got no one.’
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